


they said it all comes down to you.

by slytherns



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:53:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27347689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherns/pseuds/slytherns
Summary: think of all the horrors that Ipromised you I’d bringI promise you, they’ll sing of everytime you passed your fingers through my hair and called me childwitness me, old man, I am the Wild
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 9
Kudos: 30





	they said it all comes down to you.

The cage is dark, and he can’t escape. He is not sure he ever _tried_ , but he does remember the lack of strength he possesses, the lack of coordination, how he’s _no good with a fucking sword_. Remembering is not an easy thing to do; he thinks about the past the way you prepare for a feast not knowing how many guests will show up, he has greedy hands that cannot carry half of the things he’d like to take with him. He is alone, and hopeless, and only remembers being those two things. The cage is dark, and he can’t escape, and it is all there is.

*

Sometimes someone comes into the cage and the sheer relief of not being alone anymore is swallowed up whole by the terror of being hurt again. Morbid urges have been punched out of him a long time ago so they know he won’t try to escape, and he knows they will continue to hurt him. It is a game in which he has none of the powerful cards, and yet, he is forced to keep his ground, because if he doesn’t, because if he so much as falters, he knows that something _terrible_ will happen. He doesn’t know _what_ , exactly, but it seems important, it seems essential, and sometimes, it feels like this belief is all he has. Therefore, he continues. He smiles, and bares his teeth, and bows, and says, _what can I do for you?_ He hears a chuckle, and the sound of metal being unsheathed, and then he disappears into his own mind, because even if he does like a spectacle, he prefers to be far away from the front scene when songs are cut out from his throat.

*

Things don’t get worse. They don’t get better. They just continue to be, day after day after day, a twenty-four-hour torture stretched for eternity. He doesn’t think things have ever been any other way. Sometimes he dreams of gold, of hands extending towards shoulders, a soft touch between friends, camaraderie seeping through his pores. He dreams of lights, too, which sound a lot like music, and while it doesn’t make any sense when he is awake, it makes very much sense when he is asleep. Sometimes he dreams of a lilac voice that decides to come closer and whisper, _where are you, songbird? What happened to you?_ He never answers because the presence of the lilac voice means anger, means betrayal, means old ugly jealousy, and these are feelings he can’t afford to have when he’s unsure if he still applies as a _person_. So he walks away, light as music, while the lilac voice sighs and says, _please, songbird, you need to answer_. But he doesn’t, he walks away without looking back, and somewhere in the world, a sorceress wants to _cry_.

*

The person that comes into the cage is not always the same person, but they all wear the same ebony uniform. Only one enters clothed in white, and it is blinding, and it is glorious, and she is the worst sight to have once in the cage, because he knows what it means, he _knows_.

The dull ache due to blades only last a few days, maybe more if they have not been careful, but it is easy to get used to it after a while. It hurts, but some hurt less than others, and when it’s all you have, when it’s all you get, it’s easy to realize that what you’re living is not the worst part of your life. He thinks he remembers a time when a strained muscle was the end of the world, when he still had a whole lifetime of injuries ahead of him. In the cage, it took maybe a month before he found out that he was wrong, oh so deeply wrong. His injuries have already been made, keep being made every day, and they’re not worse than the first days’, even if they are deeper. They lack the novelty. They lack the surprise. The worst is behind him, and the whole ordeal is boring, and he endures it quite well, now, mocking his jailers, asking for something _new_.

But the woman dressed in white doesn’t come with blades, she comes with potions. She patches him up, slowly, bandages everything with magic until he is as soft and as new as a new-born. He tries to resist, at first, to go back into the cage inside his head, where it is safe and no one can enter, but she coaxes him out with soft hands and soft whispers. Sometimes she even gets a hand through his dirty locks. He remembers another hand doing that, maybe his mother’s, if he had one, and fuck, that hurts, that hurts every time, that hurts like it’s new, like it hasn’t hurt a hundred times already.

It's not the pain that kills him, it’s the _relief_.

So he cries, of fucking course he cries, and she smiles. It should be pretty, but he can see the glassy look, so he knows it’s fake, he knows everything inside the cage is a _spectacle_ that can’t be trusted. That doesn’t mean he can help the shudders, or the tears, of the way his body moves like it’s in pain, like he can’t bear it anymore. The hand in his hair doesn’t stop, and the woman wearing white whispers, _little nightingale, could you lead us to the wolf?_

And for a second, an infinite second, he wants to say _fuck it_ , he wants to say _yes_.

*

The thing is, he _can’t_. He has no idea who or where the wolf is. It’s not a thing he remembers, and maybe it’s there, inside his head, locked out of the cage he made for himself, maybe it’s kept safe by his own twisted mind, he doesn’t know. The only thing he is sure about is that the wolf is a name he has only heard uttered by his jailers and he doesn’t know what it _means_.

*

The lady in white comes back, and it’s been months, he thinks, he’s unsure of the way time passes. Perhaps outside of these walls, the sun has not shone a single time, perhaps it has truly been only one day, beginning anew each morning.

She says, _little nightingale, what would you say about joining us for dinner?_

He says _no_ , firm and sure, just like he has every time before that, except for the first, because he was young and stupid and didn’t know any better. When it happened, he had been enchanted, and he had come, and he had been laughed at, spit at, standing in that grand hall, in nothing but dirty old clothes, while nobles looked at him with sheer disgust. He doesn’t know much about himself, but he’d like to think he is a quick learner. Besides, it was more torture than the blades have ever been – he actually wonders why he hasn’t been forced to attend ever since, only _asked to_ , politely, like they respect his wishes, like they accept the boundaries he is setting. This time, as every other time, it is _no_ , and it is the only reply she will get.

Except – except she comes closer, and she whispers into his ear, _are you sure? The wolf is coming to see you, with his lady at his arm. We found him, and invited him, and he said yes. Don’t you want to know who we kept you for? Don’t you want to see, little nightingale?_

*

He is dressed for the first time in an eternity, with the same ebony uniform as all the people that came into the cage. They don’t chain him, but the lady in white gives him a necklace and tells him not to ever get rid of it if he doesn’t want to go back to the cage. He says _yes_ , he says _of course_. He forgets about the necklace at soon as it is around his neck.

They don’t let him bathe before he is clothed, but the lady in white moves her arm in an elegant way while whispering ancient words, and he knows that once she is done, he will be cleaner than a bar of soap, because it is something she does with him, every time she visits. He knows the words by heart and could use them, if only he was magic, if only he had _potential_.

*

His shirt is buttoned to the top of his throat, and maybe it’s not important, but it is worth being noted, at least he thinks so, even if he is not sure why. His hair is… Well, he has no idea, because he keeps playing with it and they don’t let him have access to any mirror. The lady in white gets one good look at him and affirms, _that’ll do_ , so no one says anything else. They look at him, because once he is out of the cage, _he_ becomes the spectacle, he is no longer the participative audience in his own slaughter, he becomes an actor in his own demise. It is funny, or at least he thinks it is – he remembers being chased, he remembers, _I’ve saved your life, you’re on your own now_ , and he remembers never being on his own after that, always protected. He remembers being alone for some time before this. The cage. The pain. Or maybe, maybe the pain was already here, diffused into the air, waiting for a reason to drown him.

He thinks – he thinks his mind is making things up.

*

He is not seated in the same dark corner as he was the first time, instead the lady in white ( _Fringilla_ , she murmured into his ear while she helped him put the jacket on) makes him sit in front of the assembly, at the centre table, next to her and the lord of the castle. He is young, younger than he would have expected, and when the prisoner dares looking up from his lap, he can see the lord’s hand on Fringilla’s thigh, for a second too long, under the table.

He doesn’t have time to think about it, though, because the doors open to let the guests enter, and while he doesn’t know any of them, he can feel his eyes being attracted to the taller one, who’s _already_ looking at him. He has a blank face, and clear eyes, and white hair. He is handsome, if you’re not the kind of person to get scared when faced by a wall of muscles. At his side, another big man, who looks somehow softer, with a smile dangling at the corner of his lips and a scar across his face. On the other side of the white-haired man, there is a woman. She is prettier than any he has ever laid eyes on, and it is a stupid thing to think, because he doesn’t remember seeing _any_ other woman, save Fringilla and the ones with blades, but it doesn’t matter, he knows it’s _true_ , he knows that woman is the most beautiful in the world, just like he knows that two and two make four and that he is a prisoner inside this castle, despite his head trying to convince him that he has never been anything but that, which wouldn’t make him a prisoner, just very, very unfortunate.

She is beautiful, so he looks, and looks, and looks, until – until she comes closer, and he sees the violet eyes. They’re lilac. They’re the voice’s. They belong to the one he hates, to the one who stole _everything_ , to the one who got away. He loathes those eyes. For a second, he is blinded by the sheer, pure, brutal hate that fill him entirely.

He doesn’t know what happens, exactly, after that.

He – he _screams_ , he thinks, something feral that had been kept silent for too long, and Fringilla is not fast enough to keep him seated, or maybe she doesn’t really try, because one second he is next to her and the next, he is jumping over the table with extreme speed and grace, and everyone is _surprised_ except the lady in white. He’s weak, he’s _human_ , he shouldn’t be able to do that so fucking fast.

There are obstacles between him and his prey and then there are none, all pushed away with a strength he should not possess.

He moves closer and closer and closer, and even the big men aren’t fast enough to stop him, not before he has a hand on the violet-eyed woman’s throat. They must know he’ll break that pretty slender neck before any of them has even moved, and it feels _good_ , to be the powerful one, to be able to move closer until he can look into her eyes and _see_.

He expects fear and he expects tears, but there are none. She only waits, patient, until he is close enough that she can whisper softly: “Songbird. We’ve been looking for you.” And it tastes genuine, the same way lights sound like music and gold rhymes with love. But we all know how that one goes, don’t we? There’s _nothing_ genuine in this place. He thinks there must have been, once upon a time, because it’s a pretty castle, and there are good sounds around them, which must be music, but it’s not _his_ , so he doesn’t listen too closely, does not care, only looks at and listens to the woman in mauve’s heartbeat, which does not quicken, even when his fingers tighten.

He wants to keep holding on, he wants to squeeze the life out of her just like _they_ squeezed the life out of him a long time ago, in another story.

He doesn’t remember where the story comes from, isn’t even sure it’s _his_ , but he hears it all the same, and it’s pitiful, and it’s pathetic, and it makes him close his hand even more around her throat. While there are tears in her eyes and a blush on her cheeks, she doesn’t appear extremely fazed by what is happening, which he _respects_ – maybe he’s not the only one who has a lifetime of injuries behind him. Things are moving around them but he doesn’t care, doesn’t even look, because there’s – there’s a song, or a story, and it gets louder and louder every time he gets a sniff of her perfume, lilac and gooseberries.

There is a mountain and the woman in mauve plucks the songbird’s feathers until he has nothing left, and then, then, she throws him in front of the wolf’s open mouth, and the wolf eats him up, body and heart and soul, and leaves him there, all alone, all alone, until the lady in white saves him…

Or maybe the story goes like this: the bird sings about heartbreak and destiny and gets hit in the face by the echo of his own voice, coming back to him, more real than any threat. They’re three on that mountain and then _they’re not_. The bright songbird starts wearing black and says he is grieving the songs that died at the top of that impossibly tall mountain, and the lady in white saves him, because he needs saving, because he has – because he _is_ nothing…

There’s a loud bang and then – then there are screams, he can hear them, they’re not his own, because he is _sheltered_ , because while he has his hand on the woman’s neck, she has her own moving around them, slowly, like he might snap if she moves too fast (which is probably what would happen, if he’s honest with himself). He thought the big men would attack him, but instead they’re attacking the men in ebony uniforms who try to get him back. They want to put him down, now, don’t they? Like a wild animal, which he _is_.

He doesn’t understand the story, or the bang, or anything going on around them – they were supposed to eat and he was supposed to hurt and then he was supposed to – to go _home_ , which is not home but still, he thinks of the cage, he needs to go back there, where it is _safe_ , or well, safe as any other place in the world, which is to say, not safe at all but _familiar_ and _easy_.

But then there is a door that gleams, and the woman with violet eyes says, with her lilac voice: “Come on, songbird, let us take you home.” And if _home_ isn’t _here_ , then there is hope, and there is a life out of that cage, and there are things that can be wanted, and things that do not hurt.

He lets her go, and she breathes faster, like perhaps she thought he wouldn’t, like it was her last shot and she thought it’d get her killed. But the moment doesn’t last long – she’s calling for “Geralt! Eksel!” and they pass through the portal, despite one of them not wanting to, looking at _him_ with bright golden eyes, but the woman in mauve pushes him through the portal and the handsome man lets himself be guided, while she extends her other hand towards the prisoner. It’s a hand he doesn’t want to take, because he doesn’t know her, except he does, he does and he _hates_ her, and that’s a good reason as any not to go, except – except when he takes a look at the chaotic room, Fringilla is giving him a nod.

A hand extends through the portal, manly and sure, and yanks him through the gleaming door. He lets himself be yanked.

*

“Fuck, is everyone okay?” the one with the dangling smile says, but his smile has left his face, has probably fallen on the ground the second the prisoner leaped over the wooden table to grip at the woman in mauve’s throat. They all nod, except for _him_ , because he is backing away toward a dark corner, not knowing _where_ he is or _who_ he is with. Then, there are three pair of eyes on him, because _he_ moved, and that was a stupid thing to do, even for him. The handsome one asks, voice gruff: “What the fuck was that, Jaskier?”

He’s talking to him and he’s calling him Jaskier.

Jaskier.

He – he _doesn’t_ have a name. He’s in a cage, waiting, waiting for something he can’t name, sometimes going in another cage inside of his own head to protect something he doesn’t remember, and it’s, it’s not good, but it’s _easy_. It’s easy to refer to himself as a single pronoun _, I: a concept_ , it feels poetic, it feels simple, it’s, it’s easier than being a name, because a name can be ripped away – he is the lady in white’s _little nightingale_ and the lady in mauve’s _songbird_. He’s something to be caged, something that is supposed to sing lullabies but _can’t_ , and a name, a name would hurt, like the gentle caress of a mother did, a name would remind him of the past, and the past is the only thing that truly feels like torture.

So he looks at the man with golden eyes and says, firm, so firm, firmer than he has ever been in the cage: “Don’t fucking call me that.”

And then he leaps, what for, he has no idea, or tries to leap, because the sorceress says, _I’m done_ , and she says something, and she’s on him before he has made the final step, two fingers on his forehead and he – well, he thinks he falls.

He truly has no idea.

*

He dreams. He always does. That’s the strangest thing about the cage: he can’t see the rest of the world, can’t even see the sun, but his mind – his mind is full of bright colours, and it doesn’t stop to be so, even when the only colours he sees during the day are the blue of his bruises, the grey of the walls, the red of his blood or the white of his hands. Or well, his mind used to be like that. Since he has the cage, theses colours only manage to shine a little, as if the grey of the real world had begun to taint the colours of the dream. He doesn’t mind much, kind of forgets there was ever anything else.

He dreams but it is not like he usually does. He dreams of the man with the golden eyes, extending a hand towards his cheek, stopping before impact, saying, pained, _Jaskier, I’m sorry_. And while he doesn’t look like he wants to punch him, the whole ordeal makes _Jaskier_ want to scream, because it’s not fair, he’s supposed to be angry at this beautiful man and he can’t, he can’t if his wolf is going to look at him like that.

He dreams of golden eyes, which reminds him that gold rhymes with love, and love tastes a lot like wine, except the only person that drinks wine is the lady in mauve, which he knows because he sees her, in a dark corner of the tavern, with her glinting glass. He’s moving forward, and he’s not sure why exactly, but his legs bring him where he’s supposed to go. He sits, and she looks up, and she doesn’t smile _per se_ , but it feels like maybe she _could_. She says, “Songbird.” And he says, “Sorceress.” And she extends her glass towards him, and _he takes it_.

He dreams of gentler times.

*

He’s not awake but he’s not sleeping, and he can hear – things. Words. “What the fuck, Yen?” and, softer: “I don’t know. He’s – he’s human, but he’s not – it’s like, it’s like she broke _something_ inside of him and now it’s _too much_. I think he tried, he tried to keep it contained, and that’s why he doesn’t seem to remember. But, he can’t – we need him to _let go_.”

But letting go sounds a lot like dying, now, doesn’t it?

*

The dreams are the same, which is a gentler kind of cage but a cage nonetheless, one he can’t escape, one in which he is in an actor who recites all his lines without knowing what they might be beforehand. Every time, he is surprised by his own gentle gasp while his wolf says he is sorry, and every time he feels amusement bubble into his own throat when the sorceress salutes him.

There is a man with golden eyes that apologizes and then there is a woman in mauve that salutes him. Rinse. Repeat.

He goes from one dream to the next to the next like it’s a race, like he has nothing better to do, because, truly, it is the only thing he understands. Somewhere above him, people are getting worried, he can feel it, like vibrations of a lute’s chords, their feelings are deeply disturbing sounds. They’re saying things, _he should be waking up_ _why isn’t he waking up_ , and _Jaskier_ , and _fuck_ , and _hm_. There are grunts and whispers and magical promises, but nothing manages to reach into the cage. He is trapped inside a cage inside a cage inside a cage and he’s not sure he’s ever going to _get out_.

*

The dream is a memory, but not quite; something is missing, as if someone had wrongly played that melody.

It is not his, perhaps; the world is looked through golden eyes.

_Do you know what I’m most afraid of?_ , is asked over the fire, while his musician’s hands quietly prepare their food and the witcher is busy taking care of his swords. Geralt does not utter a word, has learned by now that his bard does not need any help in that department: the story will flow from his lips as surely as waves in the ocean, coming back to the shore. _I would hate if we were forgotten. I sense that… we’re on our way to something great, we are bound to do unthinkable deeds_ – _have felt it the moment I met you. Destiny, you see? Well. It would be an awful thing, to be forgotten, after all these adventures and all these songs._ Uh. The witcher is forced to contemplate a life in which the human bard is no more, in which his songs become only that: songs, with no origin and perhaps no future. The very idea seems absurd, because there is nothing more lively than Jaskier – no one deserves this life, this slow, constant, unbearable breathing – like waves on the shore, like an ocean, like life itself, coming and retreating endlessly – more than the bard himself. Geralt hums, with no words to spare for this. It is later, hours after this discussion, when the bard awakes from a nightmare he does not understand and Geralt is at his side, offering his flask, that he finally offers the only solace he knows can be assured: “I will remember you.”

*

Is he waking up, or is he falling asleep?

There’s a hand in his and it is not soft. There is a hand in his and it has never been there before. There is a hand in his and it is sacred, it is made of destiny, it is made for death and he – he _screams_ , he screams, his body and his spirit and the cage trembles, each part shuddering as he feel it; the transformation of the dream, as the hand of _death destiny something greater something else EVERYTHING_ holds him tighter, holds him still, says, _IT’S TIME TO COME BACK, JULIAN._

There is white bright noise,

And then there is nothing.

He dives deeper into a shallow lake.

*

_I am sorry,_ and _Bard_ , and _Why didn’t you tell us? Little nightingale, we didn’t know who you were_ … _you should have told us_ , and _Jaskier, I am sorry_ , and _Bard, it’s always a displeasure_ , and _you were destined for great things, how didn’t they realize?_ And, _fuck, I didn’t mean it_ – _What, songbird? Don’t tell me he hurt you too._ – _Does he know? Does he know that his little toy could set the world on fire?_

_I am sorry, little lark._

and

_Bard, send me a letter when you’ve arrived._

and

_We’re going to make you exceptional_

and

_YOU PROMISED, BARD. IT IS TIME TO SING OUR SONG._

*

He wakes up.

He is the same person he _was_ but he _isn’t_. He remembers the cage and the sorceress and the wolf, but he _doesn’t_.

Not like he used to remember life. It was images of his life, glimpses of what had been but now, he sees, he sees destiny intertwined in those poor choices, he sees the woman in white, precursor to something terrible, and the witcher, catalyst to great things. He sees the sorceress, that wanted to create life, and the sorceress who wanted to become death. He sees himself, fragile, agonizing, human.

Things have changed. Things had begun to change long before Fringilla got her hands on him, but those potions – fool taste in human mouth, accelerated the job. Things have changed and he is not the same anymore.

It makes him want to vomit.

He gets up from his bed, doesn’t spare a look for the man standing close that has been there ever since his blue bright electric eyes have opened, and not-human-Julian moves to the door on shaky legs, which he opens. He continues to do so, doors and doors and doors and no one stops him. No one would be able to, even if they tried. He understands that now. He is the boy in the cage and the one with the lute, the one going down that mountain and the one drinking wine, he is _that_ but he is also more. So much more than that. No one would be powerful enough to stop him – he _knows_ this without a doubt.

He walks for an eternity, or what feels like one, until he is outside, and there is rain, which tastes a lot like tears. He doesn’t remember crying, even in the cage, even in the beginning. They always tried to make him weep, because that’s when the hold on the door inside his head tended to loosen, so they talked, talked about his wolf and his sorceress, talked about a cub, talked about a life he would never return to. They had not learned many things, but they had understood quite well that the past was the only weapon sharp enough to truly make him bleed. They had tried and he had not let them.

The door had stayed locked.

He doesn’t remember crying from the blades, but he remembers crying from the grey, from the gentle hands, from the rough memories. He is on his knees under a grey sky and he thinks, to himself, that he will never truly get out of the cage, and that makes him weep with the skies. The grey will stay. The grey will stain.

There is no escaping it.

*

He thinks it again and again later, when eating at these strangers’ table, when walking in the forest around that strange castle, when bathing, when sleeping, again and again and again: _this is it_. This is all there is. There was a lifetime of injuries and now there is not, but it stained, and he can smell it, the blood, the pain, he can see it, the redness of it all, the way it pours out of him with no concern for anything else. The boy in the cage had to kill the boy with a lute to survive, and _now there’s nothing left_. After all, what’s a boy in a cage without the cage?

He thinks it again and again, when looking at the wolf and the sorceress and their friends, this is _it._

And then it strikes, like lightening, like an idea, like salvation.

This is _it_.

Another cage made of gentler times.

*

He doesn’t talk to them, doesn’t look at them, but sometimes a small child comes into the room and it’s – it’s like a song during battle, there is nothing to be done about the horrors that are committed, but you can enjoy the way the song changes the spirits of the people around you, those scared and those fighting. He feels that this little girl is that kind of song, one to be cherished, one to be dreaded. Therefore, he talks to her, and listens to her, and sometimes he even wants to sing to her, but he doesn’t, because the boy with a lute is gone.

The cage is still there, and no song can get out. That was the _deal_.

She says, _Jaskier, do you remember?_ But it is never important things, it is always, _you’re silly, of course you know how to braid hair! Do you remember when Geralt tried? That was the ugliest ever!_ And he lets her say things like that, lets her tell him who he is, lets her give him a name, and doesn’t flinch when she moves too fast or closer, even if he wants to, because there were no children with blades in the cage.

*

Sometimes the wolf comes to him too, when it is dark and he should be sleeping soundly. He hears him enter the room and doesn’t move, but the wolf knows him and always says, _you’re awake_ , which is not a question, but he feels inclined to reply anyway, to scoot a little closer to the edge so that the not-man not-monster can lay down.

It feels dangerous.

It is the kind of things he is not allowed to want, and yet he does, he yearns for the proximity, and his rare words. If the wolf speaks, he has learned, it is with a short amount of syllables, single ones, that you board like boats to reach conclusions, and it often feels like they’re going to let you drown. Except – except, sometimes, the wolf will whisper, soflty into the night, _Jaskier_ , and Julian, _Jaskier_ will feel known, and found.

He doesn’t say anything in exchange, which, he thinks, hurts the wolf more than any creature with teeth sharp enough to leave a scar.

*

The first time he is willingly being touched, it is by the sorceress. She finds him standing over the collapsed wall of the keep, too close to the chasm, and she whispers, _what is it with you and danger_ , like there’s a joke in there that he should understand. He doesn’t. He looks at the rest of the world and feels lighter than ever before. He feels – full of grey. Full of pain and sad. It’s the happiness that keeps you on the ground, he knows.

She moves closer and he trembles,

She moves closer and gets a hand on his shoulder.

There is fire in her hand, he knows because he can feel it, from the point of touch to the rest of his body, like desire, except – it’s _purer_ , somehow. He’d say _relief_ , but relief _hurts_ , and this _doesn’t_. She tugs on his shoulder, tugs on his arm, tugs until he is back on solid ground, far away from the abyss, tugs until he is in her arms.

She says, _songbird, don’t you dare fly away_.

He hugs her while crying and continues to do so even after he is done with the tears.

*

Want is a haemorrhage he had learned to stop when he was with the lady in white, but the bleeding is back now that he is far away from her, and it is worse than ever. He wants spring and he wants the cage to disappear. He wants the wolf to come closer and the memories to come back. He wants the sorceress to call him songbird and the small child to smile. He wants everyone to stop looking at him like he’s a wounded animal, and he wants to stop feeling like he’s unhinged, like he’s on the verge of going feral. He wants lights and gold and wine. He wants more and more and then more of it.

There is nothing to be done – he is bleeding out.

*

And then,

And then the necklace starts to burn around his neck, and he _knows_ , he knows he’s late to the party, he knows he hasn’t woken up when he should have. It’s a strange thing to be so acutely aware of, how can anyone know that they’re late to their own awakening, but he does, he _does_ and he is furious and he is running, running in a castle that is not home but could have been, must have been in another story, and –

There are screams. The child – Cirilla – is screaming and crying. People are getting killed, he can smell the blood, which is strange, because he remembers his being sweeter, like warm bread, less metallic, less ugly. _His_ , the ebony-cladded men used to say, _was made for painters, a red so pretty you could make roses out of it_. Theirs is – dirty, and all over the floor, and he almost wants to throw up. It’s a slaughter.

It is the little nightingale’s fault.

He arrives in what must have been a ballroom, once upon a time, or was designed to be. Two ebony-cladded men are holding Cirilla by her arms, and they must be hurting her, because he has never seen the child _cry_. She’s looking at something, and he follows her stare, follows the vibration of her screams, which all lead to the wolf under the lord’s sword, and the sorceress under the lady in white’s hands.

We all know how that one goes, don’t we?

The wolf dies under a blade and the lady in mauve gets killed by another’s chaos. The boy with a lute is too weak to do anything while the cub screams an empty scream devoid of any magic because of the metal around her neck.

Or maybe we don’t. Maybe it’s another story. He’s not the boy with a lute. Maybe it’s a story that has not been told yet.

He tries to remember the beginning of it – or at least the broad mechanics of such a tale.

He knows the answer is in there, somewhere.

There is a mountain, where they are three and then they are not.

The woman in mauve plucks the songbird’s feathers until he has nothing left, and then, then, she throws him in front of the wolf’s open mouth, who eats him up, body and heart and soul. He leaves him there, all alone. There are no cages, then, but the songbird doesn’t have any wings left, so he stays on top of that mountain, with the dragon they saved. The songbird can’t fly but he sings, he sings about heartbreak and destiny and death, things he now knows too well, and on top of that mountain, he gets hit by the echo of his own voice. Destiny is calling him.

He is only a boy with a lute, but still – he answers.

Destiny reminds him that he is alive, that he is remembered, that he is _powerful_. He is the first Singer to be awakened in centuries. The word is lost as soon as he thinks it; but he knows. What he is. What he could be. What he must be, if he wants them to live.

The songbird becomes his own song, except when he goes down that mountain, he is still without wings and he is still alone. There is a cage waiting for him, which he escapes, except, except it is him or the wolf and his cub and his sorceress, which is no choice at all. 

The lady in white closes the door behind him.

She makes the bright songbird wear black and tells him to grieve the songs she killed. There are no more wolves and no more sorceresses on the continent, despite her promises to spare them. There are no more cubs to protect. He wails but doesn’t sing and after a while, without wings and without songs, he decides that Destiny needs to be hidden in a stronger cage, one that is _his_. _YOU PROMISED TO SING OUR SONG_ becomes _YOU CANNOT LET HER HEAR US_ becomes _SHUSH, BARD_ becomes _YOU SERVED US WELL_.

He doesn’t know, exactly, the moral of this story, except maybe that – there was a boy with a lute and a boy in the cage, and they’re dead, now, both of them, but there was also the boy who forgave and the boy who screamed, the boy who leaped and the boy who answered.

He is the voice of Destiny and they ought to be _terrified_ of him.

*

Do we know how this story goes? He supposes not, he is writing it as we speak.

There are doors and doors and doors inside his mind and he opens them all, as fast as he can, to protect the ones he wants, the ones he _loves_. On the ground, the wolf groans “Jaskier. Leave.” And against the wall, the sorceress looks at him and then at the little cub, with tears of despair in her eyes threatening to fall, because there is nothing left to do, and she _knows_ that. it’s a strange sight: he had always imagined her like the ocean, more than capable to wreak havoc ; but in this story she becomes the mountain, the one who sees before the world what great pain they are going to suffer. She is also the one to get struck first by lightning – he sees it now, the red under her nose, painting her lips. She is hurt, she is _weak_.

The sorceress is collapsing, and he can’t bear such a sight.

Even the wolf has admitted defeat, scarred hands holding hopelessly onto the blade against his neck to keep it from slashing the life out of him. Red licks his wrists.

There is also Fringilla, who turns around and smiles, smiles at him, _to_ him, glassy look and bright lips, as she exclaims: “Little nightingale. You served us well.” Words echoing in his brain, as if the lady in white and Destiny were one and the same. But he _knows_. He – he _didn’t_. He knows that. he wouldn’t do something like that. He isn’t many things but he is sure that loyal would be appliable to him. He even wants to argue, turns towards his – friends, to tell them. But the sorceress looks defeated and the witcher looks resigned, and the cub is still crying. No one thinks he did it, no one thinks he did not. There comes a time, right before death, when you stop caring about what brought you to the point of no-return. But _he_ knows, and he doesn’t want them to think anything else. The cage was _locked_ , the lady-in-white did not step into his mind. Except – except.

_THE NECKLACE, BARD_.

The necklace.

Hands come around his neck and it burns, it burns his palms, he can feel the skin being reduced to angry gashes of red, the metal trying to defend itself from being ripped off, and he thinks, he thinks he cannot do it, he wants to let go, he _always_ wants to let go, isn’t that sad, isn’t that fucking pathetic, the boy with a lute wanted to let go, and the boy in the cage wanted to let go, and now the boy full of destiny wants to fucking let go – what he is good for, exactly, if he does just that? _Let go let go let go stop it Jaskier don’t you fucking know when to quit? Leave it there, let them go, they’ve left you before, you rot in that cage for months, for years, for an eternity. Who cares. They’re dying or they’re already dead – what can you even do to save them?_

He wants to let go so badly.

*

_IT IS TIME, BARD._

_CHOOSE YOUR DESTINY AND WE WILL GIVE IT TO YOU._

He wants to let go. He doesn’t.

It’s already been a lifetime of injuries, what’s one more?

_This. I choose this._

It feels a lot like dying.

(But it isn’t letting go.)

The necklace won’t break and continues to burn. The wolf is grunting at him to leave and the sorceress is telling him to let go and the cub is pleading him to _stop_. It feels a lot like dying, and the very essence of it can be heard in the scream that escapes his mouth while he collapses unto his knees. He is agonizing. He is dying.

For one long second, he thinks about listening to them.

*

Even if he doesn’t remember much, he does remember that he has been holding death’s hand. He has done it, earlier, before the memories, when he was just a boy and a cage and a dreamer. Death’s hand is gentle, and it is loving. This isn’t. This is pain and assault. This is torture, not death.

He remembers that he has already been trapped, and that he doesn’t want to be anymore.

*

The necklace breaks between his fingers and he can – he can feel himself grow, if it makes any sense.

He is Jaskier. He is a bard. He wears colourful clothes and plays a lute and never shuts up and loves Geralt and Ciri and maybe even Yennefer. He got kidnapped and found a way to protect the ones he loved. He got tortured and found a way to protect himself. He lost _everything_ and now he can get it all back.

He is Destiny’s voice.

*

Fringilla has her eyes on the necklace, smile slipping out of her face, she didn’t expect that, no magic being should have been able to rip that thing off, it was made for the strongest mage, for the worst monster – and that smile falling to the ground is the last thing she does, because then, there are no more vibrations for her.

Jaskier plays an invisible chord and it strikes exactly right: she falters, blood coming out of her mouth, while her body is being ripped apart by the soft music. The lord raises his head, looks at the slaughter around him, ebony-cladded men and their moon all dying in a sky of red. Geralt rises, takes the sword from the lord’s hands. The moment Fringilla stops being in control, Yennefer takes it back.

It’s okay now, they’re saved. He should stop. He should let go.

Except –

Except he _can’t_. He’s angry. He’s so angry he could choke on the force of it. He’s angry because he didn’t have time to mourn the boy with the lute, he is angry because he has mourned his friends, he has been tortured and used and played with and mocked and he never, never fought back because he didn’t want the lady-in-white to come too close and look inside his broken mind. He is angry because his own brain is a maze he’s not sure how to navigate in anymore.

He is so fucking angry.

So he strikes that invisible chord again and again and again and again

Until Destiny is whispering, _BARD, HAS IT NOT BEEN ENOUGH?_

Until there is nothing left of the lady in white, except a face, except a dress painted in red, except a body without magic, without life, without _anything_ worth remembering.

Until there is no more music, no more sound, no more humming, just the silent presence of death and blood at their feet.

And everyone

Everyone around them is looking at Jaskier like he’s the crazy violent psycho, as if he has not been the one held hostage for – for however long it has lasted. Yennefer doesn’t move but she’s looking at him like, like she’s not sure what he _is_. She’s scared, he realizes, wine turned sour on his tongue. And Geralt, Geralt is moving towards him slowly, like a predator towards its prey, gold being scrapped off, and

And Ciri is still crying, even if no one is holding her, because the men in ebony clothes have met the same end as the lady in white, and she is _terrified_ , lights gone out,

Terrified of him.

Jaskier throws one look at the assembly and flees.

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't decided if i want to write the rest of it or not... if that's something you'd be into, let me know !


End file.
